


Under Sunlight

by Atanih88



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Past Clark Kent/Lois Lane, Slice of Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: Clark reaches for what he wants.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 283
Collections: DC Universe, Superbat Exchange Winter 2019





	Under Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [batdad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batdad/gifts).



> Written as a pinch-hit for [Superbat Exchange](https://superbatexchange.tumblr.com) 2019.

It feels like rising out of the deep ocean to reach the surface and breathe in the light. Clark can feel the golden touch of it along the left side of his face.

He sighs, turning into its warmth, entire body tensing for a moment, muscles locking, freezing the lethargy etched into his bones and then letting it slip away like water through his fingers.

The touch of light is reassuring and welcoming. He feels its touch on his skin and for a moment he thinks of Lois, how much her hands had felt like being bathed in sunlight. The thought hooks the edges of his mind and he frowns even as he twists to soak more of the warmth in. It spills from his face down to his arms and chest even as he feels something, silk and softness, glide over the edge of his hips to slip off.

'So you're not dead. Good.'

Bruce.

Clark opens his eyes and stares into the light as the world sharpens to a pinpoint. The whisper of the leaves outside, the hiss of the steaming kettle two floors down, the ticking of the clock down in hall, the rustling of dark wings deep beneath what he knows is the manor. 

Bruce's heart, steady, steady.

Clark's breath leaves him on sigh and he rolls onto his back, seeking Bruce's shape in the darker half of the room. His lips twitch into a smile despite his confusion at the picture Bruce cuts, all in black, sleeves rolled past his elbows and arms crossed over his chest as he stands there leaning back against the wall. His eyes are locked on Clark.

'You really are allergic to the light,' Clark says, and is surprised at the dryness of his throat, at the way his voice seems to scrape its way past it. Before he's even finished, Bruce is at his side, a full glass of water in his hand and held out to Clark.

Clark pushes himself up, snatches the sheet and keeps it in place before it reveals a little too much. Because he's not wearing anything beneath that. He looks back at Bruce, arches a brow at him and then takes the glass from him.

'It's nothing I haven't seen before, Clark,' Bruce says and this time, instead of taking his place in the shadowed part of the room, he surprises Clark by sitting down on the edge of the bed. Close. Closer than Bruce has ever come to him outside of a life or death situation.

Clark drinks his water and waits, even as he feels the shift. 

And that thing, that thing which has been there in every room with them for a while now, that something that hovers always just out of sight but there, swells to fill the space between them.

The thing about Bruce—he has the bluest eyes. 

They're different from Clark's own. 

Bruce's eyes make Clark think of crisp frost under a winter sun. They blister just the same. And right now, they're locked on the spot where the sheet lays over Clark's lap. The sheets feel as expensive as they look, that's for sure and Clark would crack a joke about silk threads but he can't when Bruce is looking at him like that.

Clark finishes the glass and doesn't say anything when Bruce takes it from him and sets it on the bedside table that looks about as expensive as the sheets.

'What happened?' he asks and does a proper sweep of the room.

It's bigger than Clark's living room, everything neat and in its place, a tasteful painting adorns one of the walls and a set of wide windows that have had their curtains drawn back to allow for the sunlight. There are no personal effects anywhere in the room, just an elegant emerald green chaise made of velvet, the colour matching the throw that's bunched at the bottom of the bed and the cushions piled there too. 

A guest room in the manor then.

'Why am I at the manor?' Clark looks at Bruce again.

Bruce's fingers are calloused. No one ever looks closely enough to notice, not at parties, not at any social events, and Bruce is careful in everything he does. People he shakes hands with don't even notice. But Clark feels those callouses now, the scrape of them on his hip as Bruce brushes his fingers over pronounced bone, fingers playing over Clark's skin and a frown on his face. As if he's in a world of his own and completely unaware of what he's doing, Bruce's touch drifts over Clark's skin and lower, brushing over the sensitive skin of Clark's groin.

Clark draws a sharp breath, stomach sucking in with it and catches Bruce's hand against his skin.

'Bruce.'

Bruce doesn't look up and doesn't pull his hand away. He stays still and there's a heaviness to him that is different from his usual gravity.

'You've been out for three days,' Bruce says, 'Diana had to help me carry you.' Beneath Clark's hand, Bruce's hand moves again, spreading over the flat plane of Clark's groin and staying there, his touch hot on Clark's skin. 'It cut you open, from here to the top of your inner thigh. Went right through your suit.' Bruce's mouth stretches into a taut line. 'There was blood everywhere.' Bruce glances up. 'The other shards went into your chest. Too close. Alfred and I had you on the operating table for hours. It rained for two days straight and we couldn't risk moving you. You didn't start healing until this morning.'

Bruce sits back and tugs his hand out from under Clark's and when Clark looks down, he searches it out. 

It's faded now, and although it's imperceptible to anyone else, it's shrinking even now, a silvery line of skin cutting the path that Bruce has just described. 

Clark ignores the cold on his skin where Bruce's hand had just been and tries to remember, managing to pull together only fragments of memory.

Batman's face staring down into his, Diana's voice calling Superman's name. There are other memories but they're wrapped in a ribbon of pain that had blazed a path through him in his lower and upper body. The only thing he can recall with clarity is the ground rushing up to meet him and the taste of the blood coating his inner lip and teeth and dripping from his mouth.

He drags his mind back into the present and the other man in the room.

Bruce's face is carefully blank. 

'Bruce,' Clark says and reaches for him but Bruce is standing, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking down his nose at Clark.

'You're not finished healing. Lie back down and make sure you stay in the sunlight. I'll let Alfred know you're awake so he can call Martha and Lois. I'll inform the rest of the League. I'll bring up some food—'

Clark locks his hand around Bruce's wrist, stops the flow of words. 'Bruce,' he says again and waits until Bruce meets his eyes again. 'Thank you for—'

The look Bruce cuts at him makes Clark stop.

Clark smiles, sheepish. 'Sorry. Forgot. Just doing your job, right? Or you're going to say I would've done the same thing for you, right?' Clark drops the smile but keeps a hold of Bruce's wrist. 'Did you stay with me?'

To his credit, Bruce doesn't look away. 'Like I said, you weren't healing.'

Yeah. Clark shouldn't be surprised. Things are never just simple with Bruce.

'Okay,' Clark says. And he tugs on Bruce's wrist, uses a little of his true strength, enough that even with Bruce's considerable skill it still forces him to stumble forward though he corrects it quickly. Clark doubts anyone but him would have noticed it—not with the way Bruce moves so smoothly into the misstep and readjusts in the moment. Still, it has the desired effect, the space Bruce had put between them is gone, and his eyes are narrowed on Clark's face.

'What about this, Bruce?'

'You'll have to be more specific, Clark.'

Clark smiles again. 'Alright.' Clark tugs again and this time the mattress dips when Bruce has to brace a knee on it to keep his balance. Clark doesn't stop this time though, keeps pulling until Bruce's hand is once again pressed against his skin, low enough that Bruce's fingertips dip under the sheet draped over Clark's lap. 

It brings Bruce's face dangerously close to Clark's own, Clark's mouth close to Bruce's ear. 

'I'm talking about this,' Clark says, voice low, 'about you looking at me. About you touching me. It was the way you touched me, Bruce.' 

When Bruce doesn't move, doesn't say a word, Clark sighs again and gives in to what he's wanted to do for so long now. He leans forward until his forehead is pressed to Bruce's cheek and can't help closing his eyes against the simple contact—except it doesn't feel simple at all. 

Clark huffs out a laugh and shakes his head; the sound of his hair rubbing against Bruce's skin rolls over him and he closes his eyes tighter. For some reason this, this moment feels more intimate than anything he's shared with someone before.

'I'm kinda hoping this is where you stop pretending we haven't been dancing around this for months and let me do something about it.'

He hears Bruce's sharp intake of breath and the drum of Bruce's pulse pick up—a momentary thing that is forced back into a slow pace after a moment. But Bruce doesn't move away.

Clark swallows and steels himself. He can feel the sunshine all along his back now and he soaks it up, lets the golden warmth fill him and give him that small amount of extra courage.

He lifts his head at the same time as he slides his free hand into the hair at Bruce's nape, scraping blunt nails gently over Bruce's scalp. He catches the way Bruce's eyelashes flutter, hiding that blue for a split second and Clark doesn't want to let that go, that feeling that fills him from chest to stomach, deep and satisfying at knowing he caused that. So, he curls his fingers into the thick dark hair.

'Hey, Bruce…' Clark forces Bruce to turn his head, his hold gentle but firm, a risk when they've overcome so much of Bruce's misgivings about Clark's potential to abuse his superior strength. But—

Bruce's mouth is soft. So damn soft when it closes over Clark's upper lip. And Clark freezes because he hadn't thought Bruce would do it, thought he'd have to coax it out of him while holding him pinned beneath him. But Bruce's hands are cupping Clark's shoulders, Bruce's tongue sliding into Clark's mouth, Bruce's heartbeat thundering against Clark's chest.

Clark groans. 

It's not like Lois. It's not soft light filled kisses that leave Clark feeling humbled by the love that fills them.

No. 

Bruce's kiss is like the sound of bat wings buried deep, deep within the cave and it leaves Clark feeling gutted.

He wraps his arms around Bruce's waist—tight, too tight—and yanks him all the way onto the bed with him, wants to plaster himself against Bruce before Bruce remembers all the reasons why he thinks they shouldn't. Wants to show him how good Clark can be, how good Clark can make this.

There's something so dark about what he wants from Bruce. It's part of the reason why Clark never pushed before. It makes him uncomfortable and he doesn't know what to do with it. Except now, now, it doesn't matter.

Clark pulls back and tugs Bruce's head back to expose his neck and closes his mouth over Bruce's jugular, sucking on Bruce's skin like he wants to swallow a piece of him. And he does. 

'Jesus Christ. Clark—' 

Bruce's voice sounds as if it's been dragged over concrete and torn to shreds. His fingers dig into Clark's shoulders and his thighs—

Clark groans again, tugs him further down until Bruce has no choice but to spread his legs over Clark's and settle. Clark curves a hand around Bruce's hip in approval, trails his mouth down further to nip at Bruce's collarbones and lick at his clavicle.

Bruce sighs and sinks into him. Rough hands come up to cup either side of Clark's jaw and with a softness Clark hadn't expected, Bruce brings him back to his mouth, slows their kiss down until they're just mouthing at each others lips and breathing each other's air.

For a moment neither of them say anything, just watch each other come down from the unexpected high.

Clark grins. Can't help it. He buries his face in Bruce's throat.

'Didn't think you'd kiss like that, Kent.'

That makes Clark laugh again and he pulls back enough to look up at Bruce's face, at the hint of cautious humour in the lines around his eyes. This is Bruce not running away.

'You'll learn,' Clark says.

Bruce stills. And maybe that's too much, implying anything to do with them and a future in which this is something that they do. Maybe Clark should have kept that in for now.

But then Bruce's mouth curves, eyes going low lidded. 

'Alright. Then show me.'

So Clark drags Bruce into the sunlight with him and shows him.


End file.
